“…and, thus bereft of his love,
he turned & delved so deep as to emerge
in unknown airs, on another side…”
From “Elegy for Eurydike”
by Ornotakritos,
3rd Chresmologue to Pediculopubis the Puritic,
c. 475-469 BC.
Through an orphic dark,
a bird drives its
wedge of screams.
Does it grasp me,
as the old one says?
Or, does it,
from his second mouth,
move me,
rush & shift & slide,
on iron, glass, &
further factious growths?
On this ground,
barely made &
“once created,”
–am I flux,
—am I fixed,
by the cry we children
try overhard
to make our own?